Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? (12 page)

‘I prefer them closed.’

I swing around and spy Isaac sitting in an armchair, a book open on his lap. It’s a mass of eaves and supporting struts up here, I hadn’t noticed him tucked away behind there.

‘What are you reading?’ I ask, hoping that a spot of general chitchat might oil the wheels a bit.

He holds the book up for my inspection. Jackie Collins,
Hollywood Wives
.

Well,
that
was unexpected.

‘I’ve read every book in the building ten times over, child. This is by no means the worst of them.’

A thought strikes me. ‘I could bring you some new ones, if you like?’

‘I thought you were supposed to be getting rid of me, not entertaining me.’ He closes the book and lays it to one side. ‘I prefer thrillers. And perhaps a newspaper.’

I make a mental note to ask Gran for book recommendations; she loves a good thriller, the more scare-your-pants-off the better. Given our unusual ability, us Bittersweet women are slightly less easy to scare than most so we have to steal our thrills where we can.

‘I want to help you, Isaac, and if for now that just means a couple of the latest thrillers, then so be it. We’ll get to the bigger stuff along the way.’

‘I presume you mean who killed Douglas,’ he says cutting keenly to the point. ‘I’ll tell you something, Melody. I think that the murder weapon is still hidden in this house somewhere.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Because neither Lloyd nor I left the house on the days following the discovery of Douglas’s body, and it’s a well-known fact that murderers like to keep trophies and mementos of their kill.’

‘Right,’ I say slowly, backtracking on my thoughts about bringing Isaac a fresh stock of grizzly novels. Maybe I’ll throw a few light romances in there too. ‘But surely the house was thoroughly searched?’

He shrugs one shoulder. ‘It was 1910, Melody. They searched it, of course, but policing today is very different to how it was back then. Forensics were a long way off.’ He has a point. I’ve watched enough episodes of
CSI Miami
to know that forensics are an essential part of any modern murder case.

‘And you couldn’t search here when you were alive, Isaac, because the family had cut you off,’ I say, remembering his gangrenous limb comment as I worked through his theory in my mind. I privately acknowledge the possibility that Isaac himself is the killer and trying to send me on a wild goose chase, but only quietly at the back of my mind. If I had to say which of the brothers is a more likely murderer I’d definitely err towards Lloyd. But without either a motive or a weapon, I fail to see how I’m going to come up with any cast-iron proof.

‘And as much as I’ve mastered the rudimentary ghostly art of holding objects and opening and closing doors, detailed searching or heavy lifting is beyond my capabilities,’ Isaac explains, shaking his head.

‘Can you manage a pen to write?’ He knows this house better than I ever could, I’m hoping he’ll be able to draw up a list of potential places to look.

‘Until that damn fool appeared and used up every precious pen in the house in the space of six months, yes.’

‘I take it you mean Lloyd?’

Isaac sighs with distaste at his brother’s name. ‘He always fancied himself a writer, when we were younger.’ He folds his hands in his lap. ‘Quite the obsessive diarist, convinced that he was going to burst onto the literary scene with his dazzling plays and prose. Our mother should never have encouraged him; it was borderline cruel.’

I don’t point out that Isaac is being borderline cruel with his scorn for Lloyd’s writing. I’m still trying to understand the dynamics between the three Scarborough brothers, both now and back when they were all alive and this house was the elegant home of their well-to-do family.

I add pens and paper to the growing list of items I need to bring on my next visit. Maybe a crossword book would go down well too. Or, actually, given the fact that ‘hangry’ and ‘awesomesauce’ are examples of additions to the
Oxford English Dictionary
since the brothers’ demise, maybe that’s not such a good idea. I could always teach them Sudoku.

* * *

M
y mother has invited
me downstairs to eat with her and Gran this evening. I think it’s intended as a peace offering after Gran’s star turn as a medieval knight on daytime TV, not that Gran herself has shown much in the way of repentance.

When I let myself into their kitchen, the first thing I notice is that the table is laid with the best cutlery. The second thing I notice is that Mum’s gone to the trouble of lighting a tall candle. The third thing I notice is the bald, baby-faced stranger seated at the table beside Gran. Ah shitballs. Not this again.

Mum turns from the stove and greets me with a smile that is pure predatory wolf.

‘Right on time, darling,’ she says, sugar-sweet, which is odd given that she’ll be more than aware that I’m fantasising about wringing her neck just now. She does this every once in a while, decides to have a go at setting me up with some random man she meets at the radio station or in the shop. The last one was so awful that even
she
considered doing a runner, from her own flat, and I distinctly remember a late-night conversation that involved me swearing really quite badly, and her swearing solemnly that she’d never attempt to meddle in my love life again. And hey ho what do you know, here we are again.

I draw a small amount of perverse pleasure from the fact that I look like I’ve escaped from the nut house. My hair is in rags because I’m experimenting with methods to encourage the poker straight stuff on my head to curl, and Lumpy Space Princess glares out from the front of my favourite T-shirt in silent challenge. I can only agree with her sentiment. What the actual lump is my mother playing at?

‘Hi,’ I gush like an American chat show host, shooting our guest a smile so wide it hurts my cheeks. ‘You must be Mike. Mum’s told me all about you and just so you know, I completely, one-hundred percent approve if you become my new stepdad. I mean, who cares about age differences these days?’ I look at my mother and growl ‘cougar’ at her, rolling my r’s and shimmying my shoulders. I see blue steel flash in her eyes and yet I feel no fear. I thought we had an understanding about my love life – or lack thereof – but it seems that I thought wrong, and I’m ready to make sure that this is the very last time she ever makes this mistake again. The thing is, she and Gran are both the same in that they’re prone to meddling in my business with the best of intentions and the worst of results. You only need look at Gran clanking around in a suit of armour on live TV to know that. My mother has a particular bent towards romantic meddling, more so the older I get.

I know why, of course. She found her own true love early, sweet seventeen, and the ten years she spent being spectacularly loved by my dad have given her unrealistic expectations about love for everyone else, me most of all. Her romance goggles hang so heavy around her neck that it’s a wonder she doesn’t walk with a stoop. No one since has held a candle to my father for her, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t lived a lonely life since he died. Gran was the same with my grandpa, although of course her grief is assuaged by the fact that Grandpa’s ghost has stayed tethered to her bed for the last twenty years.

For Bittersweet women, love is big and sweeping, all-consuming and life-altering. My mother just wants me to find my life-altering man, and she isn’t averse to trying to nudge me in the right direction every now and then. You might think that knowing all of this stuff would make me more inclined to look kindly on the presence of the stranger at the dining table. It doesn’t.

Gran pours us all champagne as she silently watches proceedings, probably just glad that the heat is off her now that someone else has given me the rage. Seriously, do I have too much anger, or am I justified in getting crazy with the stunts that these guys pull on me? I may be the youngest member of this family, but I am easily the sanest.

‘Melody, darling, could I have a word in private?’

I follow my mother as she disappears into the lounge, rounding on her as soon as I close the door.

‘Mother!’ I hiss. ‘I thought we’d talked about this.’

‘He’s a perfectly nice boy and you embarrassed him. As if I’d be interested in someone half my age.’ She’s using her favourite aggressive whispering technique, perfected over years of conversations very similar to this one.

‘And as if I’d be interested in someone half my height,’ I fire back through clenched teeth.

‘For God’s sake, Melody, he’s sitting down! How can you have judged him negatively on his height already?’

She makes a grab to pull the rags from my hair and I bat her hands away. We tussle for a second, locked in a wholly undignified girl fight.

‘Get off me,’ I snap, straightening LSP over my boobs. ‘He can barely see over the table. Unless his legs are completely out of proportion with his body, then he’s too short. And let’s not even start on the fact that he’s wearing a Mr Men dickie bow, shall we?’

‘You like
Doctor Who
!’ She swishes her silver mane and glares at me. ‘
He
wears a dickie bow.’

‘Yes, mother, but Matt Smith is also sex on legs. On
long
legs, and he was clever and witty, with good hair.’

My mother folds her arms and narrows her eyes like a cobra about to go for the jugular. ‘Leo Dark has long legs and is clever and witty, with good hair. I think you might need to broaden your search criteria or risk going through life with a perpetually broken heart, darling.’

I open my mouth and close it again, and I can feel my head waggling as if I’m a guest on
Jerry Springer
about to go into a head-spinning rant. I can’t believe she just said that, and even worse, I can’t believe that she might be right.

Am I being too selective? Do I need to ‘broaden my search criteria’ to include men in Mr Men bow ties with short-man syndrome? I should never have let her see how upset I was about turning twenty-seven, she’s obviously taken it as a sign that I’m desperate enough to appreciate her heavy-handed match-making attempts. Before I can take her down with a devastatingly clever come back, she sashays off into the kitchen victorious, then has the audacity to stick her head back around the door to gesticulate wildly at the rags in my hair. I yank them out and throw them on her sofa, then stomp back into the kitchen again to make small talk with a tiny man who will never be either
Doctor Who
or my boyfriend.

‘
L
et
me just get this straight,’ Glenda Jackson says, looking at me over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. It’s almost 9.00 a.m. on our second Monday morning, and she’s spent her first half an hour in the office whipping up a filing system that makes my head spin, even though we only have one file.

She’s just opened up a big, navy blue ledger, which from here on out will be known as our expenses ledger.

‘You’re filing receipts for a twenty-four-inch television, a Dean Koontz box set, a Polly Pocket lockable diary, six blue rollerball pens and a puzzle book, under essential supplies for job 001?’

Job 001 is Brimsdale Road. Or at least it is now Glenda’s here. I’m glad she started this week instead of last, we’ve had a few days to bed ourselves in so she doesn’t think we’re complete imbeciles.

I nod, aware it sounds sketchy. I’m not even sure I’ll take the diary I picked up for Lloyd the writerly ghost; it was the only one I could find seeing as we’re already more than four months into the year, but even still, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to give Polly Pocket to a grouchy ghost in his eighties. I breathe a sigh of relief when Marina flings the door open and she and Artie clock in for our second week of business.

They’re laughing about something, but pull up short at the sight of Glenda installed at the second desk.

‘Artie, this is Glenda Jackson,’ I say, ushering him across to meet her. I think she’ll like him, and I’m damn sure he’ll be terrified of her. She’s packed her curves into an ivory pussycat-bow blouse and navy pencil skirt, her lustrous red hair is piled up on top of her head, and her lipstick application would make Marilyn Monroe bow down and kiss Glenda’s sassy, high-heeled, T-bar shoes in awe. Like many men before him Artie goes a bit stupid, and he seems to want to salute her before I pull his arm back down by the elbow and whisper ‘too much.’

‘Nonna made biscotti,’ Marina murmurs, sliding the tin on top of the fridge. The second desk is generally hers, but she pulls the client chair to a spare end of my desk and sits there without complaint. She knows you don’t tussle with Glenda.

‘Now we’re all here, can I first of all officially welcome Glenda on her first day at the agency.’

Glenda smiles genially, ripping the cellophane from a second new A4 book and writing ‘meetings book’ on the front. Cracking the spine and clicking her pen open, she writes the date at the top of the first page, then notes down item one, ‘Welcome Glenda’, and looks up expectantly.

‘Please, do go on.’

I swallow, suddenly nervous. Being the boss last Monday wasn’t as daunting as this week with Glenda in the room.

‘Item Two,’ I nod briefly towards the new meetings book and Glenda writes it down. ‘A recap of where we are with the Brimsdale Road case.’

I take a couple of minutes to bring Glenda up to speed on everything that happened last week. She doesn’t bat an eyelid at any of it, not even the part where Gran practically morphed into one of the Knights of the Roundtable. I relax a little into my seat. Glenda has worked for our family for more than ten years. There isn’t another secretary in Chapelwick who could write down the salient points of a case like this without balking or at least needing to check she’d heard correctly. In fact, I’m not sure there’s another secretary in the whole of the UK who’d make notes as efficiently as she does whilst also discreetly handing Artie a wipe for the tea he didn’t even realise he’d spilt on his knee and passing around Nonna’s biscotti. She’s a quiet one, Glenda Jackson, but once she’s in place you wonder how your world turned without her.

‘You went to Scarborough House on your own?’ Marina looks startled when I mention my visit there on Saturday.

She has to wait for my reply because I’m in biscotti heaven. ‘The Magic 8 Ball made me do it.’

‘Did you shake it more than once?’

I narrow my eyes at her. ‘You know how shoddy that makes me feel.’

On the very rarest of occasions, once or twice a year at the very most, I’ll re-shake the Magic 8 Ball if I strongly disagree with its answer, but Marina knows full well that by and large, I tend to abide by its decision; it wouldn’t be worth having, otherwise.

She concedes gracefully. ‘So how did it go?’

I nod towards the pile of new purchases beside the office door. ‘The Scarborough brothers made demands.’

‘Oh my God! That lot’s for them? You’ve been hustled by a pack of ghosts.’

‘Ghosts can watch the television?’ Artie says, shaking his head in wonder.

I look at him, shocked. ‘There’s a whole subplot written into
Eastenders
just for them. Did you not know?’

‘Queen Victoria’s ghost runs the Queen Vic,’ Marina chips in.

I nod, snagging another biscotti before they get hidden from me again. ‘And Michael Jackson manages the launderette.’

Artie looks slowly from Marina to me, and then at Glenda. ‘You didn’t write that down.’

‘That’s because it isn’t true, Artie.’ She says it in a kindly, matter-of-fact way.

‘I knew that,’ Artie says, even though he very clearly didn’t.

‘They really can watch TV though,’ I say. ‘Douglas asked for the TV to watch the cricket. And the books are for Isaac.’

‘Is that a Polly Pocket diary?’ Marina asks doubtfully.

‘For Lloyd.’

‘Did I miss the part where the grumpy-old-man ghost turned into an eight-year-old girl?

‘Can they do that?’ Artie says, unguarded, and then sighs when Glenda gives him her little head-shake again.

‘I don’t suppose you can install the TV can you, Artie?’

He looks pained, so I take that as a no. Glenda leans back on her chair to read the TV box.

‘It already has Freeview built in. It should be a simple case of plugging the co-axial aerial lead into the back of the TV and leaving it to tune itself.’

You see what I mean about Glenda? She knows everything.

‘I knew that,’ Artie says again.

‘Good,’ I smile. ‘You can be in charge of it when we get over there later then.’

‘Is that the plan for today, to go back?’ Marina asks, and I nod.

Glenda starts a new line and looks up with her pen poised. ‘I take it your client has signed a legally binding contract with regards to your payment terms?’

‘Well, not exactly legally binding,’ I say, scratching the back of my head. ‘Well, not at all, to be honest. I should have done that, shouldn’t I?’

Her raised eyebrows and faintly disappointed look reminds me of my mother. ‘I’ll get something over to him this morning.’ She slides her glasses down her nose and lets them fall loose on their golden chain around neck. ‘Is there any other business or shall I close off this entry?’

I brush my hands together briskly and stand up. ‘Close it please, Glenda.’ I glance at Marina and Artie. ‘Come on, troops. We have a murder weapon to hunt for.’

* * *

T
he first thing
I notice when we arrive at Scarborough House is that the front door is ajar. I know that I didn’t leave it that way because I don’t have a key, which must mean that either Leo Dark or Donovan Scarborough is here. Bugger. I can hardly waltz in there and install a TV with either of them poking around, can I? Leo would mock, and Scarborough would probably think I was claiming squatter’s rights and take his key back.

‘There’s someone in there,’ Artie says, leaning forward against Babs’ windscreen and ducking to get a better look.

‘Yeah,’ I mutter. ‘I noticed.’

At that, an annoyingly familiar Saab pulls up in front of us and Fletcher Gunn unravels himself from the driver’s side. He looks at us all piled inside Babs and shakes his head before strolling away down the front path of Scarborough House.

‘You know something?’ Marina says. ‘He definitely wants a piece of your ass. I see it in his eyes. He tries to hide it, but I can see right through that big, tall drink of water, and I’m telling you that he wants you bad ways.’

I watch his admittedly fine ass proceed down the path. ‘Marina, if that man had a gun and only a handful of bullets, he’d use one of them on me.’

‘Totally. And your mother, and your grandmother too,’ she agrees. ‘I didn’t say he liked you. I said he has the hots for you, it’s completely different, isn’t it, Artie?’ She looks at him, and he gawps at me, wide-eyed and aghast at being asked for a male opinion on matters of the heart. I pat his knee to excuse him from answering and Marina folds a minty stick of gum into her mouth as we all watch Fletch tap the door then disappear inside the house. ‘He’d probably look away while he shot you though, whereas he’d save his last bullet for Leo Dark and draw perverse pleasure from firing it right between his subtly made-up eyes.’

I
’m caught by indecisiveness
. There isn’t much point in us all going into the house while other people are in there, but I want to know who those other people are and why Fletch has turned up. I reach for the ignition key to drive away and come back later, and then think better of it because I might miss something of vital importance going on in there.

‘Hang on here while I just go and have a quick nose,’ I say, grabbing the pack of pens and a small notepad. ‘No point us all going.’ I pause long enough to tear open the pen packet with my teeth and pull one free.

Marina smirks. ‘You just want to get Fletcher Gunn on his own and test my theory, don’t you? Artie, give her your spare condom from your wallet.’

He goes as red as the post box over the road. ‘I don’t have a spare condom. Or an essential one for that matter.’

I shoot Marina a withering look as I toss the pack of pens at her and slither down onto the pavement. ‘Just ignore her, Artie. She’s being a smart-arse again.’

She bats her wide, innocent eyes at me. ‘Just looking out for you.’

I take the high ground and ignore her, and as I lay my hand on the garden gate, she winds the window down and calls out ‘No glove, no love. S’all I’m sayin’, sista . . .’

I turn back to give her a filthy look. She responds with a double thumbs-up and blows a huge bubble with her gum whilst Artie sits beside her with his head in his hands. I make a mental note to ask him if he feeds his python live mice and, if he does, to put one in Marina’s handbag for me as revenge.

I
pause
by the front door of Scarborough House and press my ear to the gap to listen, hoping to glean something unannounced.

‘Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?’ Fletch pulls the door wide and catches me stooping. ‘Of course she didn’t,’ he goes on, deadpan. ‘She was too busy teaching you sleight of hand and how to con old ladies out of their pension money.’

If I allow his barbs to rile me, he wins. ‘Whereas your mother clearly taught you to be polite to ladies,’ I smile sweetly.

‘I am polite to
ladies
,’ he says inferring that I’m anything but. Marina has definitely read him wrong when it comes to me. He’d place a bullet in my forehead and then a second one through my heart just to make sure I was dead.

‘Ah. Miss Bittersweet.’ Donovan Scarborough stalks into the hallway and greets me tersely as I walk into the hall. ‘Anything to report?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing concrete as yet; I’m following up a couple of lines of investigation.’

There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the Scarborough brothers with Fletcher Gunn in earshot. Not that I’m ready to tell him anything yet anyway; I’d like to have some more private time in the house before I disclose anything I’ve found out so far.

‘That sounds horribly similar to the other chap,’ Donovan barks, irritated. ‘What is it with you mystics? You’re not on a bloody day-rate, you know.’

I’m insulted by his rudeness, but also gladdened to hear that Leo is still no further along with things than I am.

‘Will you be here long?’ I say, trying to sound diplomatic. ‘I can always come back later.’

Donovan shrugs. ‘Up to you. I’m doing a piece for the press about the house being featured on TV, keeps the buyers interested if they think it’s hot property.’

I give Fletch a sceptical look. ‘And of all the reporters in all the world, they just happened to send you?’

He shrugs. ‘Coincidence, huh?’

Coincidence my arse. He’s probably pitched this piece to his editor specifically so he can keep an eye on what’s going on here at Scarborough House.

Douglas saunters into the hall like a movie star onto a set and winks at me. ‘Would the journalist like to hear my views, do you think, Miss Bittersweet? I’m sure the intrigue would help sell papers.’

I shake my head slowly, avoiding eye contact as I’m the only living person in the hallway who knows he’s there. Douglas strolls behind Fletch and flicks the back of his neck. Fletch doesn’t flinch, exactly, just wipes his palm down the back of his head as if he felt the air move. He glances over his shoulder to check the door is still ajar, and his analytical expression tells me that his black-and-white brain is happy to have found the source of the draft.

‘This is fun,’ Douglas grins, amused. ‘What’s this one’s name?’

‘Fletch.’ It slips quietly from my lips, and I regret it instantly because Fletch looks up at me, surprised, and when I don’t elaborate he flips his palms up and shrugs as if to say ‘What?’